Lorrie slammed the door when she left work on an April day. In her apartment, she packed her dishes and hangers in boxes. She folded the expandable table she always found so useless. She left this stuff behind, for it wouldn’t do her any good where she was going.
On the journey down, she made friends with various men on the plane, telling them small fibs about her life:
“I’m meeting my boy-friend up there.”
“I’m not eating carbohydrates right now, not good for my blood. I don’t like how rough they are on the throat.”
When she was far enough north to feel an ounce of leftover winter chill, she settled in a hostel, in the highest room, where the other two beds had yet to be occupied. She set out to explore the city.
In a small bookshop, a pile of used, bent paperback books exchanged hands from the till operator to our traveler. The titles were: Wild Birds of Nova Scotia; Nova Scotia’s Birds; and Native Nova Scotian Wildlife.
“I’m a photographer, you see. Birds are my specialty. I’m travelling from down south and figured I’d read up so I can find the rarest of Nova Scotia’s species.” She lied to the sappy-eyed till operator.
Down the street, she stepped with lime green heels. Lorrie stood at five foot six inches with red hair of shoulder length. Her coat was a bright yellow, and her hat a neon orange.
“What a lovely outfit!” An old lady cat called her. Lorrie only ever was cat called by old women. She had that touch. Most passersby stared at her in distress. The sudden vibrancy of her against the coast’s clouded sky caused the eyes to grow sore.
In a small vintage dress shop, Lorrie touched every fabric from cheap, upcycled tulle to cotton to silk.
“This dress is one of my favorites. It would compliment you well.” The salesgirl came up behind Lorrie while she was stroking a red silk dress.
“This dress could have been a moth. Now it’s just a red dead moth. I’m a vegan and an expert seamstress, I would know these things naturally. I cannot fathom how low one must stoop to purchase a dress so vile. I will settle for this.” Lorrie hands the sales girl a feathered necklace, which she purchases quickly before shuffling out the door.
“What a nut case! Doesn’t she know that necklace could have been a bird?” The sales girl comments before noticing that Lorrie is still standing outside the shop door, lingering and listening. Lorrie turns to look at her and lets out a loud belch before walking down the street.
She walks for three miles in her heels back to the hostel, passing by carefully marked bus stops on the way.
When she returns to her room, she enters to find another woman is now occupying the once empty second bed of the room. Lorrie learns the woman’s name is Lottie and they hoot and holler at the coincidence. Lottie is a curly-brown haired woman of Lorrie’s height, who dresses in brown slacks and a white button down.
“I’m a quiet woman, not in the way of an artist, but more in the manner of a receptionist.” Lorrie comments.
“Like a bird?” Lottie replies, pointing to the stack of bird books Lorrie had placed on her bed. Her eyes moved to the feathered necklace wrapped around Lorrie’s neck.
“Yes, like a bird.” She paused, “But it doesn’t do any good to sit around watching them, I don’t think. Waste of time.”
Lottie and Lorrie make their way out to dinner that evening, when the last golden sliver of light is suspended in the sky. The falafel market is packed with business men in suits, teenagers, and couples.
“We should go somewhere where I can meet a proper young gentleman.” Lottie proposed.
“Nonsense. There’s no use in making the acquaintance of men with so little time to travel. Better to enjoy walking the streets in the eve. Everyone illuminates at this hour, it’s the time when I fit in most.” Lorrie responded.
“I think I would like the company of a man at this hour.”
“I think it would do you no good. Creeps prey on woman travelers. Let’s stick together.”
The women ordered and sat on the street corner. Lorrie's legs and skirt were sprawled out on the concrete. She chewed with an open mouth. Lottie crossed her legs and sighed, taking small nibbles from her sandwich.
“It’s really boring work, being a receptionist. When I left, I told my boss: ‘I’m going further south to where it is even warmer for the spring. Don’t bother scheduling me hours for a while.’ He’d never heard such a small woman make demands before. He was taken back.” Lorrie said.
“Haven’t you traveled north?” Lottie questioned.
“That’s the best part: lying. Being whoever you want to be. Isn’t that the thrawl of traveling?”
“It’s immoral. And, frankly, as a lawyer, I find it appalling.”
“We wouldn’t get along long term then would we?” Lorrie says.
“Good thing we’re both passing through. I’ll be going back to Oregon fairly soon. My husband will be back from his work trip and my running around will do him no good.”
“Why have you come all this way?” Lorrie questions her.
“A client of mine was being tried for arson. He burned a man’s boat. Before he was sentenced, he told me ‘I should have stayed in Nova Scotia. You can just disappear and get away with anything over there.’”
“What are you trying to get away with?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
And so the two women walked around, stopping in pubs where they found only old men with wart-full faces and smelly hot breath flirting with young woman bartenders of slim build.
When the women arrived back at the hostel, they found the third bed had still not been occupied, and began to use it as a storage space for their suitcases full of slacks or skirts, computers or unused cameras, books on ethics or books or birds. Lorrie placed her feathered necklace on the night stand.
They pranced together, down to the showers, where they stood in stalls beside each other and listened to the water trickle gently off the other’s back. Lottie looked over, beneath Lorrie’s stall, to find Lorrie’s toenails painted purple, and a golden silk-like stream of piss running down her legs. The golden stream’s vibrancy was so bright and glittering Lottie had to look away and scratch at her eyeballs, feeling the steaming water against her bare pupil cause her vision to grow dry and hazy.
They dried their hair and brushed themselves until they were both ready to go back to the room, Lottie lingering carefully by the door while Lorrie adjusted her nightgown so it perfectly sat against her breasts.
And when they arrived back, tucked in bed, the women found themselves wide awake. Lorrie was staring out the window to the moon. Lottie was staring at her back, wondering if her breath was the rise and fall of her rested body, or if she too was awake. When Lorrie broke the silence –“Are there many bats in Nova Scotia?”-- Lottie made her way over to Lorrie’s twin bed, and tucked her body like a spoon behind the broth of Lorrie’s satin night gown. Lorrie took Lottie’s hand and slowly started to gnaw on her cuticles. Lottie gnawed on Lorrie’s back. And the two women undressed themselves and slobbered all over each other.
But by the morning, the women found themselves in separate beds, dry and clothed in their own garments. Lorrie’s feathered necklace was hanging around her neck, although she didn’t notice it was there at all, as it had already begun to seep into her skin. The women didn’t speak of the night before, and instead dressed themselves, for they were setting out for the day to go wander around museums.
“I’m glad you’ve chosen to come with me instead of going to the water. I’d hate to see you disappear. I’m not fond of the seagulls and tides, and both of them can swallow you whole.” Lorrie comments.
“I’d doubt a seagull could get his jaws around me.” Lottie responded.
“On the contrary, I’ve read they’re quite unhinged with their mouths.”
“Where on earth did you read that?”
“Can’t recall it now.”
In the museum, Lorrie stepped room to room, passing through sculptures of animals and mothers and men and paintings of breasts and flowers and water. Lottie lingered by each plaque, read off the name of each artist out loud and the date of the pieces.
“You don’t have to admire all of them.” Lorrie comments.
“There’s no use in walking around a museum if you aren’t going to observe the pieces in their entirety.” Lottie replied.
“Well maybe some people come to the museum to be seen.” Lorrie said. Today, she wore a purple dress with a light blue sweater and a red hat. Lottie was just as plain as she was the day before.
The women left the museum and passed by the bookshop Lorrie had been to the previous day. The till operator happened to be standing outside, smoking a fag.
“How’s that bird photography going?” He shouted as they walked passed.
“Quite well, thanks.” Lorrie said, grabbing Lottie’s hand and hurrying her away from the man.
When the women made it to the park, they sat down in the grass and slapped the bugs crawling along their legs. A seagull passing overhead honked and honked and honked.
“Oh, pesky little creatures!” Lorrie slapped at her skin more and more, like an imaginary swarm of ants was trying to eat her.
“Just go sit on the bench.” Lottie suggested.
“No, benches are for watchers. I’m not a watcher, I like to sit in things, really just do things, ya know?” Lorrie said.
“I’ve no clue what you’re yammering about.”
“See, we wouldn’t get along long term, now would we?”
When the women bored themselves of discussion and walking, they returned to the hostel to lay down for a while. Lorrie laid in bed and scratched at her neck, feeling the feathered necklace as it sucked itself against her. Lottie fell softly into a nap. In the silence, Lorrie went over to the third bed and snooped through Lottie’s suitcase, where she found a file of divorce papers.
She sat between the two suitcases and read the files like literature.
… This agreement is between Lottie Holloway, wife, hereinafter “Holloway,” and Lance Mortenson, husband, hereinafter “Mortenson.” …
She looked over at Lottie, who was made up of a sea of sleeping brunette curls, and matched her breathing pattern, wandering towards the bed. Lorrie curled into Lottie and suckled on her back until small bruises freckled her.
Call them daytime stars, constellations that connect to the tongue.
And the two women slept beside each other through the evening and into the night, until they awoke at two a.m. Lottie licked at Lorrie’s neck, digging into the crevice around her necklace, where she made her way beneath the skin of her neck.
“We should stop this soon.” Lorrie said, the vibrations of her speech against Lottie’s tongue felt warm and orgasmic.
And small worms started to swirl from Lorrie’s veins and against Lottie’s tongue. When Lorrie turned her body on top of Lottie’s, the worms dripped slowly into the back of Lottie’s throat. And she swallowed.
They didn’t even feel the hostel begin to sway in the windy night. Lorrie continued to feed Lottie from her neck, and Lottie took turns licking along the rim of Lorrie’s lips, feeding her saliva.
And as the wind picked up, the hostel threw Lorrie out the window, shattering the glass panes, where Lottie hung on to the worms of her neck with her teeth.
“You have to let me fall. The worms are already coming out of me!” Lorrie yelled.
And crowds of drunks stumbled from the surrounding pubs to watch Lorrie and Lottie tumble out of the hostel and onto the ground, where their legs snapped and their blood pooled together in a sea of glass.
On the journey down, she made friends with various men on the plane, telling them small fibs about her life:
“I’m meeting my boy-friend up there.”
“I’m not eating carbohydrates right now, not good for my blood. I don’t like how rough they are on the throat.”
When she was far enough north to feel an ounce of leftover winter chill, she settled in a hostel, in the highest room, where the other two beds had yet to be occupied. She set out to explore the city.
In a small bookshop, a pile of used, bent paperback books exchanged hands from the till operator to our traveler. The titles were: Wild Birds of Nova Scotia; Nova Scotia’s Birds; and Native Nova Scotian Wildlife.
“I’m a photographer, you see. Birds are my specialty. I’m travelling from down south and figured I’d read up so I can find the rarest of Nova Scotia’s species.” She lied to the sappy-eyed till operator.
Down the street, she stepped with lime green heels. Lorrie stood at five foot six inches with red hair of shoulder length. Her coat was a bright yellow, and her hat a neon orange.
“What a lovely outfit!” An old lady cat called her. Lorrie only ever was cat called by old women. She had that touch. Most passersby stared at her in distress. The sudden vibrancy of her against the coast’s clouded sky caused the eyes to grow sore.
In a small vintage dress shop, Lorrie touched every fabric from cheap, upcycled tulle to cotton to silk.
“This dress is one of my favorites. It would compliment you well.” The salesgirl came up behind Lorrie while she was stroking a red silk dress.
“This dress could have been a moth. Now it’s just a red dead moth. I’m a vegan and an expert seamstress, I would know these things naturally. I cannot fathom how low one must stoop to purchase a dress so vile. I will settle for this.” Lorrie hands the sales girl a feathered necklace, which she purchases quickly before shuffling out the door.
“What a nut case! Doesn’t she know that necklace could have been a bird?” The sales girl comments before noticing that Lorrie is still standing outside the shop door, lingering and listening. Lorrie turns to look at her and lets out a loud belch before walking down the street.
She walks for three miles in her heels back to the hostel, passing by carefully marked bus stops on the way.
When she returns to her room, she enters to find another woman is now occupying the once empty second bed of the room. Lorrie learns the woman’s name is Lottie and they hoot and holler at the coincidence. Lottie is a curly-brown haired woman of Lorrie’s height, who dresses in brown slacks and a white button down.
“I’m a quiet woman, not in the way of an artist, but more in the manner of a receptionist.” Lorrie comments.
“Like a bird?” Lottie replies, pointing to the stack of bird books Lorrie had placed on her bed. Her eyes moved to the feathered necklace wrapped around Lorrie’s neck.
“Yes, like a bird.” She paused, “But it doesn’t do any good to sit around watching them, I don’t think. Waste of time.”
Lottie and Lorrie make their way out to dinner that evening, when the last golden sliver of light is suspended in the sky. The falafel market is packed with business men in suits, teenagers, and couples.
“We should go somewhere where I can meet a proper young gentleman.” Lottie proposed.
“Nonsense. There’s no use in making the acquaintance of men with so little time to travel. Better to enjoy walking the streets in the eve. Everyone illuminates at this hour, it’s the time when I fit in most.” Lorrie responded.
“I think I would like the company of a man at this hour.”
“I think it would do you no good. Creeps prey on woman travelers. Let’s stick together.”
The women ordered and sat on the street corner. Lorrie's legs and skirt were sprawled out on the concrete. She chewed with an open mouth. Lottie crossed her legs and sighed, taking small nibbles from her sandwich.
“It’s really boring work, being a receptionist. When I left, I told my boss: ‘I’m going further south to where it is even warmer for the spring. Don’t bother scheduling me hours for a while.’ He’d never heard such a small woman make demands before. He was taken back.” Lorrie said.
“Haven’t you traveled north?” Lottie questioned.
“That’s the best part: lying. Being whoever you want to be. Isn’t that the thrawl of traveling?”
“It’s immoral. And, frankly, as a lawyer, I find it appalling.”
“We wouldn’t get along long term then would we?” Lorrie says.
“Good thing we’re both passing through. I’ll be going back to Oregon fairly soon. My husband will be back from his work trip and my running around will do him no good.”
“Why have you come all this way?” Lorrie questions her.
“A client of mine was being tried for arson. He burned a man’s boat. Before he was sentenced, he told me ‘I should have stayed in Nova Scotia. You can just disappear and get away with anything over there.’”
“What are you trying to get away with?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
And so the two women walked around, stopping in pubs where they found only old men with wart-full faces and smelly hot breath flirting with young woman bartenders of slim build.
When the women arrived back at the hostel, they found the third bed had still not been occupied, and began to use it as a storage space for their suitcases full of slacks or skirts, computers or unused cameras, books on ethics or books or birds. Lorrie placed her feathered necklace on the night stand.
They pranced together, down to the showers, where they stood in stalls beside each other and listened to the water trickle gently off the other’s back. Lottie looked over, beneath Lorrie’s stall, to find Lorrie’s toenails painted purple, and a golden silk-like stream of piss running down her legs. The golden stream’s vibrancy was so bright and glittering Lottie had to look away and scratch at her eyeballs, feeling the steaming water against her bare pupil cause her vision to grow dry and hazy.
They dried their hair and brushed themselves until they were both ready to go back to the room, Lottie lingering carefully by the door while Lorrie adjusted her nightgown so it perfectly sat against her breasts.
And when they arrived back, tucked in bed, the women found themselves wide awake. Lorrie was staring out the window to the moon. Lottie was staring at her back, wondering if her breath was the rise and fall of her rested body, or if she too was awake. When Lorrie broke the silence –“Are there many bats in Nova Scotia?”-- Lottie made her way over to Lorrie’s twin bed, and tucked her body like a spoon behind the broth of Lorrie’s satin night gown. Lorrie took Lottie’s hand and slowly started to gnaw on her cuticles. Lottie gnawed on Lorrie’s back. And the two women undressed themselves and slobbered all over each other.
But by the morning, the women found themselves in separate beds, dry and clothed in their own garments. Lorrie’s feathered necklace was hanging around her neck, although she didn’t notice it was there at all, as it had already begun to seep into her skin. The women didn’t speak of the night before, and instead dressed themselves, for they were setting out for the day to go wander around museums.
“I’m glad you’ve chosen to come with me instead of going to the water. I’d hate to see you disappear. I’m not fond of the seagulls and tides, and both of them can swallow you whole.” Lorrie comments.
“I’d doubt a seagull could get his jaws around me.” Lottie responded.
“On the contrary, I’ve read they’re quite unhinged with their mouths.”
“Where on earth did you read that?”
“Can’t recall it now.”
In the museum, Lorrie stepped room to room, passing through sculptures of animals and mothers and men and paintings of breasts and flowers and water. Lottie lingered by each plaque, read off the name of each artist out loud and the date of the pieces.
“You don’t have to admire all of them.” Lorrie comments.
“There’s no use in walking around a museum if you aren’t going to observe the pieces in their entirety.” Lottie replied.
“Well maybe some people come to the museum to be seen.” Lorrie said. Today, she wore a purple dress with a light blue sweater and a red hat. Lottie was just as plain as she was the day before.
The women left the museum and passed by the bookshop Lorrie had been to the previous day. The till operator happened to be standing outside, smoking a fag.
“How’s that bird photography going?” He shouted as they walked passed.
“Quite well, thanks.” Lorrie said, grabbing Lottie’s hand and hurrying her away from the man.
When the women made it to the park, they sat down in the grass and slapped the bugs crawling along their legs. A seagull passing overhead honked and honked and honked.
“Oh, pesky little creatures!” Lorrie slapped at her skin more and more, like an imaginary swarm of ants was trying to eat her.
“Just go sit on the bench.” Lottie suggested.
“No, benches are for watchers. I’m not a watcher, I like to sit in things, really just do things, ya know?” Lorrie said.
“I’ve no clue what you’re yammering about.”
“See, we wouldn’t get along long term, now would we?”
When the women bored themselves of discussion and walking, they returned to the hostel to lay down for a while. Lorrie laid in bed and scratched at her neck, feeling the feathered necklace as it sucked itself against her. Lottie fell softly into a nap. In the silence, Lorrie went over to the third bed and snooped through Lottie’s suitcase, where she found a file of divorce papers.
She sat between the two suitcases and read the files like literature.
… This agreement is between Lottie Holloway, wife, hereinafter “Holloway,” and Lance Mortenson, husband, hereinafter “Mortenson.” …
She looked over at Lottie, who was made up of a sea of sleeping brunette curls, and matched her breathing pattern, wandering towards the bed. Lorrie curled into Lottie and suckled on her back until small bruises freckled her.
Call them daytime stars, constellations that connect to the tongue.
And the two women slept beside each other through the evening and into the night, until they awoke at two a.m. Lottie licked at Lorrie’s neck, digging into the crevice around her necklace, where she made her way beneath the skin of her neck.
“We should stop this soon.” Lorrie said, the vibrations of her speech against Lottie’s tongue felt warm and orgasmic.
And small worms started to swirl from Lorrie’s veins and against Lottie’s tongue. When Lorrie turned her body on top of Lottie’s, the worms dripped slowly into the back of Lottie’s throat. And she swallowed.
They didn’t even feel the hostel begin to sway in the windy night. Lorrie continued to feed Lottie from her neck, and Lottie took turns licking along the rim of Lorrie’s lips, feeding her saliva.
And as the wind picked up, the hostel threw Lorrie out the window, shattering the glass panes, where Lottie hung on to the worms of her neck with her teeth.
“You have to let me fall. The worms are already coming out of me!” Lorrie yelled.
And crowds of drunks stumbled from the surrounding pubs to watch Lorrie and Lottie tumble out of the hostel and onto the ground, where their legs snapped and their blood pooled together in a sea of glass.
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